


How Shall I Love Thee When You Have Gone

by Marriposa



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bipolar Disorder, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-typical language, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Prison, Season/Series 10
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:59:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27032308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marriposa/pseuds/Marriposa
Summary: Mickey has never been an exceedingly loved individual.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 60
Kudos: 211





	How Shall I Love Thee When You Have Gone

**Author's Note:**

> Fic title and chapter title taken from the song “How Shall I Love Thee” by Rose Polenzani. 
> 
> This fic is a response to the fandom saying, “Ian fell first, but Mickey fell harder.” I took that awful phrase, and applied it to Mickey, imagining he may actually believe that. Canonically you could argue he doesn’t think this way, but in this fic he does (though his feelings are unfounded, I promise!). When writing this I wanted to explore Mickey’s insecurities, which I thought the show hinted at in episode three but never fully explored. I've kept everything canonical. However, I have decided to stretch time out a bit to make the progression of events feel more realistic. I also make zero reference to Mickey’s attempt to escape from prison because I absolutely hated that plot point and thought it was insanely stupid. But, I did write it in a way that you can decide for yourself if he tried that or not. Anyway, with all that being said I hope you enjoy!

Mickey’s living on borrowed time. 

He knows this. 

Acutely. 

Every day he opens his eyes and thinks about how much time he has left until Ian gets out- trying to guess when his parole meeting may come up, which Mickey prays won’t be for a very, very long time. He does the math in his head, attempting to calculate the exact minutes and seconds he has left. If the number is longer, has more numbers to it, maybe the time passing will also feel longer. 

It’s selfish of him, he knows. He’s never claimed to be a fucking saint. He also knows that once everything is said and done Ian is going to walk out of this prison with his family waiting outside for him, and a home with a bed to sleep in, and probably a fucking harem of guys just waiting to jump on his goddamn dick. And Mickey… well Mickey will be back to square one. So yeah, Mickey’s being a selfish prick hoping Ian has to wait out his full sentencing because Mickey wants to squeeze out all the fucking time he can get. 

Mickey has never been an exceedingly loved individual. When he carefully combs through all the people in his life to search for any indication of love, all he can find is Ian. Because Mickey knows Ian loves him, if he’s sure of anything in the entire fucked up world, it’s that Ian does love him. He has too. Otherwise… well Mickey doesn’t allow himself to tread down that path too often. In his mind he’s got boxes and boxes that he stuffs full of all the shit he doesn’t want to think about, like “ _yeah Mick, I’ll wait,_ ” and “ _we gonna go down to the courthouse in some tuxes like a couple old queens,_ ”and “ _this isn’t me anymore._ ”

Mostly he can shove the boxes off to the side to gather dust. He’s always been exceptionally skilled at compartmentalizing. Some fucking bitches may say differently, but the fact that he isn’t just a useless, catatonic ball on the floor after Terry, is a testament to his abilities. In the early mornings though, when he sometimes wakes up before Ian, Mickey can’t help but think about the past and what that means for his future. If it can even be called a future. But then Ian will jump down from the top bunk with his early morning wood, and he’ll kiss Mickey on his neck in just the right spot, and Mickey will just feel so safe and whole in Ian’s grip, and Mickey can forget. He’ll give over to the feeling of Ian, and Mickey kicks the boxes to the side and holds onto Ian for dear life. Sometimes he turns in Ian’s arms and buries his face in Ian’s jugular. Doing his best to just utterly meld himself into Ian, hoping that if he holds on tight enough, he can will himself into Ian’s actual being. 

What Mickey wants more than anything is to be a part of Ian, just like Ian is a part of Mickey. He wants Ian to carry him around wherever he goes, and maybe if Mickey holds on a little tighter it’ll work. Maybe he’ll be enough for Ian for his whole life, and not just in prison. If he succeeds, maybe Ian will love him enough to stay. 

Okay. So maybe Mickey isn’t as good at compartmentalizing as he claims. Fuck off. 

The point is, Mickey loves Ian, and he knows Ian loves him too, but the loves are different. And that’s fine. He fucking swears it’s fine. 

But, a few months into their stint in prison, when things have begun to settle down and started feeling normal (whatever normal is in prison anyway), Ian has him crowded against the wall of their cell, dry humping Mickey from behind like he’s still a horny teenager, and Ian has to go ahead and ruin it. He mindlessly kicks open all of Mickey’s carefully stowed away boxes, as he ruts against Mickey’s ass, and breaths harshly against Mickey’s cheek. 

“I love you so fucking much,” he pants out carelessly. As if those words won’t and don’t absolutely shatter Mickey the instant he hears them. “Need to get in you,” Ian continues, like the words he just spoke don’t mean anything, like it’s okay to just throw them out there, so fucking casual. “Been thinking about you all day long. No ass has any right to look so good in these jumpsuits.” 

Mickey wonders what those words mean to Ian. Mickey knows Ian’s family says that mushy shit to each other all the time. Maybe when you grow up hearing it from people, the words lose their weight. Mickey’s only ever had “I love you,” said to him once before, and that was by Ian himself when he was leaving Mickey at the border. Maybe Mickey’s put too much stock in the words, built them up too much in his head. Maybe they don’t mean that much in actuality, and in his ignorance, Mickey thinks they mean more than they do. Mickey remembers Collin once telling him that if he wanted a girl to fuck him, to just tell her he loves her. Mickey never tried that trick out himself. He thinks of the only time he ever said those words, and he feels like a stone has dropped in his stomach. Maybe Mickey doesn’t love Ian. Maybe Mickey doesn’t even know what _I love you_ actually means. 

“Mick?” a voice says a bit distantly. “Mickey?” the voice repeats, and _shit_. Mickey realizes he’s stopped moving. He’s just fucking standing there, and Ian’s dick is poking at him insistently for attention. 

Mickey blusters. “The fuck are you waiting for Gallagher? Get in me.” 

“You’re crying, Mick.” 

_Oh_. Mickey is startled to realize he is in fact crying, clocking telltale wetness on his cheeks. Ian has backed off somewhat, but he’s got a hand on Mickey’s face. 

“Did I do something? Did I hurt you?” Mickey can’t really see Ian’s face from his angle, but he just knows Ian’s got those big hurt puppy dog eyes out in full force. He’s always been a soft motherfucker. 

Mickey blinks rapidly, trying to clear away the stinging in his eyes. “Course not,” Mickey smiles, turning to face Ian and throwing his arms around Ian’s neck, leaving a trail of kisses against it. “Just hit my knee against the wall where I got a bruise. ‘S fine. Was being a pussy.” He sinks down lower, and lower until he gets to Ian’s cock, which is still lifted happily up in the air, and mouths at it through the fabric of his boxers. “Now, where were we?” 

“Mickey,” Ian says, voice caught between a moan and a warning. “Are you sure-”

Mickey roughly yanks down Ian’s suit to get to his bare cock, kisses the tip in appreciation, and he slowly eases Ian’s length into his mouth, swallowing it deeper and deeper until he’s got his nose buried in a tuft of red hair. Ian does moan this time, and if Mickey’s mouth weren’t already occupied, he’d breathe out a sigh of relief. 

It’s second nature really, to get Ian to the edge, and he sucks Ian’s cock like the expert he is. He’s got a goddamn PhD in sucking Ian’s dick. Only a few minutes pass, and Mickey knows if he does that thing with his tongue Ian will be done for already. He weighs the pros and cons of ending this all early and decides to just go for it. Ian probably needs a treat anyway after having to see Mickey cry like a fucking bitch. 

Goddammit.

So, he flicks his tongue just so and relaxes his throat, and he knows Ian is _right there_ , and then Ian pulls back. 

“Come on,” Ian says, voice ragged, bending down to offer Mickey his hand and pull him up from his kneeled position on the ground. “You keep that up and I’ll be done.” 

“Thought you’d like it,” Mickey smirks, wiping his mouth. 

“I do,” Ian pushes him gently onto the bottom bunk, joining him a second later to straddle Mickey, grinding his ass against Mickey’s cock until he’s seeing stars. “But I like this more.” Ian continues, grabbing Mickey’s ass with both hands to emphasize his point, smiling devilishly. 

Mickey gracelessly starts to pull down his jumpsuit, and Ian helps, pulling it down past Mickey’s legs and throwing them carelessly onto the floor. He starts kissing up and down Mickey’s legs, stopping to place a kiss on both his knees. 

“You gonna fucking dawdle down there, or get on me?” Mickey complains. 

“Keep being a brat and I won’t get on you at all,” Ian chastises. Normally Mickey likes to play the brat, but tonight Mickey shuts his mouth. “What no comeback?” 

“No,” Mickey says softly. Mickey gets like this sometimes too, all compliant and good for Ian, and Ian usually likes it- shit Mickey likes it too, gets a thrill from it actually- but now Ian’s eyebrows furrow a bit in confusion. 

“You sure you’re okay?” 

“Why the fuck wouldn’t I be?” Mickey bites back a bit more forcefully than he intends. It doesn’t help straighten the confused wrinkle on Ian’s forehead, instead, it only deepens it.

“I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking.”

“Well don’t.” 

“So something is up?” 

“No.”

Ian doesn’t look convinced. “Maybe we should talk inst-”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Mickey snarls. “So you wanna fuck or not?” 

“I-I don’t think right now is-”

Mickey sits up and glares at Ian as best he can. “Then what the fuck are you still doing down here?”

Ian’s face _drops_ \- but Mickey can’t handle talking to Ian right now. “Don’t be like this,” Ian reaches out a hand and Mickey pushes it back. 

“I don’t know what the fuck you want from me Gallagher,” the words are truer than Mickey means for them to be. “I’m going to sleep.” 

“Mickey, I don’t understand. Everything was fine and th-”

“Leave it Gallagher. Everything _is_ fine. Just go, alright?” 

Mickey flips over to lie down and stare at the wall. There’s a beat of heavy silence from Ian before he utters a quiet, “okay,” and Mickey feels the weight on the bed shift, and Ian is climbing up to his bunk. 

Mickey swallows, trying his best to push down his feelings of guilt. 

Ian hadn’t meant anything by saying that shit, Mickey knows. He clearly doesn’t even realize what he said. Mickey isn’t sure if that’s better or worse. He knows Ian wouldn’t purposefully hurt him like that. Ian just got carried away and said shit in the heat of the moment. People did that all the time. 

_I love you._

_The hell does that even mean?_

_It means we take care of each other… It means good times, bad, sickness, health, all that shit_. 

…

Hope is a dangerous thing, especially when you’re Mickey Milkovich.

Mickey isn’t going to allow the stupid “I love you” to let him do something as stupid as hoping.

He’s slipped more than a few times since coming to prison, but he’s mostly been able to reign it in; he learned that lesson pretty quick, two weeks after his reunion with Ian. When he was turning himself into the feds in his desperate attempt to get to Ian, he hadn’t had much time to hope, he’d only had a gnawing worry that was eating him alive. Jesus fucking Christ, Ian had stayed in Chicago because of his new stable life, and something had clearly happened to that stability and fucked it right in the ass. Mickey hadn’t known what kind of state Ian would be in when he showed up in prison, he only knew he had to get to Ian and help. It wasn’t that he didn’t think Ian couldn’t survive prison, but if Mickey could protect him from the worst of it, he was going to fucking do it. And Ian had so clearly been off his meds, riding off a major high, and Mickey knew Ian would be prime real estate for some of the fuckheads in prison willing to exploit mental illness.

More personally, Mickey also hadn’t been sure how Ian would even fucking react to his presence. He’d left Mickey twice, and maybe Mickey would only be an unwanted presence. Ian’s weird ex who showed up to help. But Mickey was about eighty percent certain that Ian would be mostly glad to see him. 

So, Mickey didn’t allow himself to hope up until he saw Ian’s face again for the first time, still so fucking beautiful, even under the fluorescent bulbs in their cell and hope blossomed in his chest, right where Ian’s name was forever stamped. It was stupid. Mickey knew, distantly, that he was being stupid, but he couldn’t help it. 

_Right_ , he’d thought to himself, drinking in Ian, _this_. Mickey had almost forgotten how palpable their connection was. How nearly everything seemed to fade away when Ian was around, and how Ian did things to him, twisted him up on the inside, making him feel in ways he never had before. Mickey was pretty sure Ian felt it too- albeit to a lesser extent. 

Ian had been more stable than Mickey had expected, and prison had him on a strict round of meds he was not allowed to miss, which took the pressure off of Mickey to nag him. He still worried incessantly if Ian was taking his pills, or just hiding them under his tongue, but Mickey kept silent. Ian had broken up with him over shit like that before, so Mickey was going to help _silently_. So fucking silently, that Ian wouldn’t even think to throw him away again. 

See Mickey absolutely not being a caretaker over on the bottom bunk? Yup. That was him. Not giving a damn. 

The first week Mickey had deluded himself into thinking everything was fine, and Ian wasn’t manic. Ian had been a bit jumpy, but that was too be expected. Ian was also fucking him _all the time_ , but that also wasn’t odd. Shit, Mickey was also horny as fuck from just being around Ian again. 

Mickey had been stupid. 

He’d come to prison to help Ian after all. He’d prepared himself for a manic, out of his mind Ian, but the second Ian jumped into the bottom bunk with Mickey and kissed him, all rationale had fled from Mickey’s clearly very stupid mind. 

Mickey woke up a week to the day of their reunion, to Ian speaking in the middle of the night. 

“Is this really the plan for me?” Ian asked the air, kneeling on the ground as if in prayer. 

Mickey just stared at Ian, groggy mind trying to process just what the fuck was going on. Ian was humming, and nodding his head, staring intently at _nothing_. 

“But I need to help them. How am I supposed to do that in here?” 

Another beat as Ian listened to the voice in his head. 

“It’s a gift. I know. The greatest gift I have ever received. I don’t take it lightly. But couldn’t we both-” 

“ _Ian_ ,” Mickey interrupted, having seen more than enough, and not interested in finding out what the rambling was about. “Stop.” 

Ian turned to stare at Mickey, eyes a bit cloudy. “Mickey! You have to meet him! Sebastian. Saint Sebast-”

“Ian. No.” 

“No?” 

Mickey crawled off the bed to Ian, so that he was kneeling across from him, and grabbed onto him with both hands, forcing Ian to look at him. “No Ian. Nobody is in here except for you and me.” 

“But-no. Saint Sebastian is. He’s right behind you.” 

“Look over my shoulder. Really look.” 

“Okay so he may not physically be in here, but I can hear-”

“I know you can Ian. But you gotta think. Look around you. Look at me. Do you really think you’re speaking to a saint right now?” 

“I…” Ian looked over Mickey’s shoulder for a long moment before it all seemed to hit him. He dropped; arms draped around Mickey’s middle, a dead weight in Mickey’s arms. “Oh.” 

Mickey took a deep, calming breath, running his fingers through Ian’s hair. “Yeah. Ian we… you gotta talk to somebody. Maybe your… I think you need…” _New pills_ , Mickey wanted to say, but he couldn’t get the words out. Couldn’t make them leave his mouth without vomiting. 

“It’s fine, Mick.” 

Mickey shuddered, he felt hot and cold all at once, and his eyes stung. “It really isn’t man.” 

“Not what I meant,” Ian looked up at Mickey, eyes tired, but looking clearer, and more lucid than before. He threw his arms around Mickey’s neck, burying his face there, cold nose pushing against Mickey’s skin. “Just started taking the pills again,” Ian continued, voice muffled. “It’ll take four to six weeks for the antipsychotic to kick in.”

“Oh,” Mickey breathed out. He knew that. God, he was so fucking stupid. He knew how long those pills took to kick in. He’d just… he hadn’t thought… he hadn’t known… _fuck_. Mickey squeezed his eyes shut, and swallowed down his tears as best he could. He breathed through his mouth so no sniffles could get through. _Fuck, fuck, fuck_. Mickey shouldn’t have brought anything up. Should have just let it be, and he’d gone and ruined everything, and Ian probably thought Mickey didn’t trust him, and-

“I’m taking my pills, Mick. I swear.”

“Okay,” Mickey’s voice sounded hoarse- more of a croak than anything. 

“You have to believe me,” Ian persisted. “I’m going every day, and getting them, and-”

“You don’t have to convince me Ian. You say you’re taking them, then you’re taking them. _Whatever_.” It wasn’t whatever. It would never be whatever. Mickey was caught between insisting he watches Ian swallow his goddamned pills every morning and night, and also telling Ian he didn’t care. Ian could do whatever the fuck he wanted- he just wanted Ian to let him stay around, and Mickey would protect him from whatever his mind was trying to do to him. But Mickey couldn’t protect Ian, not from himself. Only the pills could. Mickey looked up at the ceiling with red-rimmed eyes as he fought back the urge to sob. 

“I’m trying to get better,” Ian’s voice was small, and he grabbed onto Mickey tighter. “I wasn’t on my pills, and that’s what got me in here. I fucked up. I fucked up so bad Mick.” 

What could Mickey say to that? He’d never been good with words, whatever he said always seemed to fuck things up even more in moments of crisis. All he could think to do at that moment was to cradle Ian and hold him tight as he rocked him back and forth, holding him like he was the most precious thing in the world. And he was. To Mickey at least.

They stayed in their kneeled positions on the ground for what felt like hours, until Mickey’s knees were throbbing and begging to be moved. Somehow Ian was dozing on Mickey’s shoulder, a feat Mickey was simultaneously impressed and worried by. Mickey would have stayed there if he thought it was good for Ian, but Mickey figured it’d do more harm than good to let Ian sleep kneeling on the ground for the rest of the night.

Gently as he could, Mickey began running his hands along Ian’s body to wake him, until he heard his breathing pattern change, and Ian moved his head in a way that indicated he was awake. 

“Gotta get to bed man,” Mickey said as nonchalantly as he could. He had to play this carefully- Ian couldn’t think that Mickey was concerned, or thought he needed sleep. “I got old man knees now.” 

Mickey attempted to extricate himself from Ian’s hold, only to be snapped back into place by said man the instant he moved. 

“Please. I just wanna-” Ian took a deep breath, “I wanna hold you.” 

Mickey let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. He hadn’t fucked anything up yet. Ian still wanted him. “We can do that in bed,” Mickey placated. 

“What about the guards?” Ian asked. 

“I’ll wake up before they come around tomorrow. Be out of bed, and they won’t suspect a thing. Promise.” 

“Okay,” Ian acquiesced, and allowed Mickey to stand him up, and lead him to the bunk. 

Mickey got in first, followed closely by Ian who all but dived in, and quickly latched himself onto Mickey, who ended up flush against Ian. They hadn’t literally slept together since _before_. They’d been fucking like jackrabbits, but fear of being caught had stopped them from indulging in sharing a bed. 

“Missed this,” said Ian. “You have no idea, Mickey. Missed this so much.” 

_I don’t?_ Mickey had wanted to say, but he held his tongue. 

“Want you here,” Ian continued. “Always. Like this.” 

“Well you got me.” 

Ian’s arms tightened around Mickey and he let out a dry sob. “I do. Jesus fucking Christ, I _do_.” 

Mickey stirred in alarm. What did the sob mean? Was it good or bad? 

“I don’t think Gay Jesus should be talking the lord's name in vain like that,” Mickey joked badly. 

“Shut the fuck up.” 

“Just saying, oh Holy One.” 

“I just,” Ian’s voice cracked, and Mickey flinched, “I didn’t think I’d have this again. But you’re _here_. You’re right here.” 

“You just notice that genius?” 

Ian shrugged. “Guess it just didn’t feel real, you know? Like maybe it was some elaborate dream, and I was gonna wake up and you’d be gone.” 

“Well I’m right here, and I’m not going anywhere.” 

Ian breathed out a sigh of what sounded like relief. Mickey was glad his assessment in coming had been right, and that his presence was actually helping Ian get through this, rather than a hindrance or annoyance. Mickey had been pretty positive Ian would be glad to see a familiar face when locked up in prison, but, he’d been less certain how Ian would take to being around Mickey when adjusting to his meds. 

But then, Mickey wasn’t sure the meds were the real problem. Ian had broken up with Mickey over the goddam meds, but in the end had apparently started taking them pretty soon after he’d dumped Mickey. Maybe the problem was just _Mickey_ , and Ian’s problems adjusting to his disorder had just made it clear to Ian that he didn’t want Mickey around in that kind of capacity. 

Mickey had no idea how to interpret half of Ian’s actions. For so long he’d thought Ian loved him and wanted him, and that conviction had never completely left Mickey. Ian did probably feel something, just judging by his gratitude for Mickey’s presence in prison, and even how he’d supposedly originally planned to come to Mexico with Mickey- until he decided not to anyway. Ian’s feelings for Mickey felt confusing and undefined. Wrapping his head around what happened at the border was still difficult for Mickey, and every time he thought about the days leading up to Ian leaving, Mickey found mixed signals all around. He’d been angry for a long time about Ian leaving, but he’d since cooled down and was able to examine it with clearer eyes. He understood Ian’s reasoning, even if it tore him apart inside. But what he couldn’t understand was why Ian had strung him along for days, letting Mickey get so fucking _hopeful_. The best Mickey could come up with was that Ian wanted Mickey when he wanted him, and that could change at any moment. Prison could perhaps bring a stabilizing factor to their relationship. Ian wasn’t exactly cut out for prison, bitch was too soft, so maybe Mickey would provide some sort of help to Ian that would make Ian want him to stick around with him. 

_At least for now_ , Mickey thought glumly as he burrowed deeper into Ian’s side. 

Things changed after that night. Or perhaps Mickey was just being more perceptive, and he noticed all the little oddities Ian was displaying. His meds were stabilizing, and at times he was listless and cold, and at others manic, and seeing things. Mickey did his best to hide those moments from the guards and inmates, knowing how mental illness could be perceived as weakness and then used against people in prison. He didn’t want a big fat target to be painted on Ian’s back. 

Slowly though, the symptoms began to dissipate as the days, and then weeks trudged along. Then there was a spell of that feeling of emptiness Ian had so hated before. That entire time Mickey felt scared and nauseous, waiting for the other shoe to drop, and Ian to stop taking his meds, or maybe leave Mickey again. Though that would be significantly harder with them sharing a cell, which Mickey took some comfort in. But it never came. Ian rode it out as best he could until, finally, Mickey saw the true Ian peeking through again. 

“Thank you,” Ian said one night, the two of them squeezed into Mickey’s bunk, basking in the afterglow. 

Mickey chuckled and smiled lasciviously, “well you’re welcome.” 

Ian swatted him lightly on the arm in return. “Not for that.” 

“Well fuck me then. I thought it was pretty good.” 

“Stop it. You know I don’t mean- never mind. I meant for looking out for me.” 

“Course man. What I’m here for,” Mickey answered, still not having caught on. 

“I know I wasn’t in my right mind when I got here, and I haven’t been for a few weeks. Just… thanks for making sure I didn’t do anything too stupid while I came out of it.” 

Mickey didn’t know if he could respond to that, or even _if_ he should respond. Was it okay to bring it up now? Mickey just cleared his throat and came up with, “sure.” 

“ _Mickey_ ,” Ian said, a touch warningly, which set alarm bells off for Mickey instantly. What had he said wrong? What had he-

“Mick. It’s fine. You don’t have to fucking walk on eggshells around me.” 

“I’m not. Shut the fuck up.” 

“Well you’re acting fucking weird.” 

“You’re fucking weird,” Mickey grumbled, flipping over so his back was to Ian, dragging Ian’s arms with him so they came up around his waist. Ian squirmed so his body settled into his customary sleeping position- which was more or less him laying on top of Mickey, chest atop Mickey’s back, and a leg thrown over Mickey’s hip. Mickey’s very own weighted blanket, free of charge. 

Everything faded into a comfortable silence, and Mickey was on the verge of sleep when Ian quietly murmured against him, “know I haven’t been so good about accepting help in the past. And I’m still not great about it, but I just want you to know I see everything you’re doing, and I appreciate it.”

Mickey hadn’t been sure how to respond to that, and embarrassingly he felt a bit choked up, so he opted to say silent, and simply squeezed Ian’s hand in acknowledgment. 

_Maybe this will work_ , Mickey had thought to himself as he drifted off. 

Hope.

He’d felt hope. 

And that wasn’t for him to feel. 

_Just tonight,_ Mickey assured himself, _and then I’ll right myself tomorrow. Just tonight…_

…

Mickey keeps allowing moments of indulgence to slip through, where he imagines a future with Ian. Mickey’s dreams are all embarrassingly mundane. They live together, sometimes in a house, other times in an apartment, and sometimes they have a dog or a cat. Ian may come home from work later than him and will kiss Mickey in greeting, and they’ll eat dinner together, crappy boxed shit that Mickey makes. Mickey even imagines their chores, and how they clean up after eating- Ian washes the dishes cause he’s finicky little shit, and Mickey does the drying. They end their nights cuddled on the couch watching action flicks they’ve seen a dozen times before, Mickey dozing off in Ian’s arms. Mickey doesn’t even fantasize about sex all that much, just domestic shit that makes his heart flutter like a teenage girl. But Mickey only allows himself to divulge in these fantasies infrequently because they can result in too much hope. Just like Ian’s “I love you.” 

When Mickey wakes up the morning after the Incident, he sees Ian is already out of bed and getting ready. He hadn’t jumped down from his bunk to wake him. Mickey feels a pang, but he also knows it’s all his fault. He acted like an idiot the night before, and Ian probably wants to keep his distance after that. Mickey doesn’t blame him. Blearily, Mickey sits up from bed and rubs the sleep out of his eyes. The movement draws Ian’s attention, and he turns to look directly at Mickey, a soft look in his eyes that Mickey does not expect, and leaves his heart stuttering. 

“Morning Mick.”

“Morning.” 

“Listen,” Ian starts, and Mickey groans. It’s too goddamn early for this. “I don’t know what happened last night-”

“Nothing happened for the love of-”

“And I know,” Ian continues, bypassing Mickey’s denial entirely, “you don’t want to talk about it. But I want you to know that if you do, I’m here. I just want to make sure that whatever was going on wasn’t because of me. Because if it was-” 

“The fuck would you have done?” 

“I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking-”

“Nothing happened, and it had nothing to do with you.” It isn’t even a lie. Ian hadn’t done anything. It was all Mickey’s weak, pussy ass heart. It wasn’t Ian’s fault that he’d gone and made Mickey so irrevocably in love with him. Who wouldn’t fall in love with Ian? A goddammed moron, that’s who. 

“Oh,” Ian breathes out in relief. “Good. I was trying to figure out if I’d done anything, and-”

“Just drop it Ian. Nothing happened.” 

“Alright,” Ian acquiesces. He comes over to Mickey and kneels down to give him a morning kiss. Ian releases him a few moments later, a big smile on his face that never fails to remind Mickey of the dumb fifteen-year-old he’d once been, still buried underneath this huge ass man, who can probably now bench press Mickey if he feels like it. “Brush your teeth,” Ian tells him, lightly slapping Mickey’s cheek playfully, “Your breath stinks.” 

“Ay, you’re the one who fucking kissed me.” 

Ian hums in what Mickey assumes is in agreement, and dives in for another kiss, his hands cradling Mickey’s face, a thumb running gentle circles on his cheek. Mickey breaks the kiss this time, looking out the window nervously. “Guards will be here soon,” he says regretfully. 

“You need to brush your teeth anyway,” Ian chuckles as he stands, bending down quickly to place a final kiss on Mickey’s forehead. 

“Fuck you,” Mickey swats Ian away. “The fuck is that shit? Gonna drop me off for my first day of school next?” 

“Sure. First class is Shiving 101.” 

“Yeah?” Mickey smirks and raises his eyebrows suggestively. “What’s the second?” 

Suddenly the alarm blares and the door to their cell opens. “Ugh,” Mickey groans, flopping onto his back in annoyance.

Ian chuckles. “Gonna have to wait until later to find out.” 

“Mmm can’t wait.” 

Ian smiles at him, the most he can do when their door is wide open and people all around are shuffling out of their cells, and guards are watching. “Get dressed. I’ll see you at breakfast.”

“Alright, I’ll be down soon.” 

Ian’s still staring at him with this intent look in his eyes, that makes Mickey a little nervous. “See you down there. Love you.” 

Mickey stares up at Ian who’s looking at him with that glint in his eyes. Did Ian figure it out? Or did saying the words yesterday unlock something in Ian that made him want to start saying shit like that now? 

“Fuck off with that bullshit,” Mickey grumbles, pushing himself off the bed to find his jumpsuit. “I’ll see you at breakfast.” 

“Customarily you’re supposed to say it back when somebody tells you they love you.” 

Mickey balls his hands into fists and counts to ten. “Fuck you.”

“Later,” Ian winks, and saunters off, leaving Mickey to wonder what kind of sick game Ian is playing. 

If Ian’s waiting for Mickey to tell him he loves him then he’s gonna be waiting a long goddamn time. When he and Ian were kids Mickey has turned those words around in his head for months, hell _years_. But it was only during two of some of the worst moments of his life that he had the courage to say them. First, he thought those words might be enough to bring Ian back to him, safe at home, that it could snap him back to his real self. He’d been fucking stupid. The second time, he remembers hoping, standing on the sidewalk as Ian told him he didn’t want him anymore, that if he confessed his feelings for Ian, laid himself completely bare, that Ian would take him back, would keep him. But his love had been thrown in his face and mocked, and Mickey has never been able to fully recover. He’s doesn’t just have kinks in his armor, but wide gaping holes, where Ian can stab him easily in his soft underbelly. He’s not leaving more of himself out there. 

No. He swore he’d never say those words again, and he’s gonna fucking stick to it. 

…

Mickey spends the rest of the day on edge, waiting to hear Ian say I love you again. There are a few moments where he catches Ian staring at him, and he has to pinch his arm and brace himself for impact, but the words never come. 

They don’t have sex that night, and Mickey isn’t in the mood anyway, but he’s also worried that he’s fucked things up irreversibly. Is Ian mad about the night before? About Mickey not saying “I love you” back? Mickey isn’t sure, but he’s terrified. Ian hasn’t tried to start anything today, and sex is a staple of their relationship. Sex has always been more the just sex for them. It’s the best way they’ve ever been able to express themselves in their relationship, it’s a way to check in and be with another. It’s more than just physical release. And yeah, Mickey isn’t in the mood, but he can be if Ian wants him. But Ian doesn’t want him apparently, and what does that say? That Ian is done? 

_Could just be having problems getting it up_ , Mickey tries to assure himself, blaming it on the meds. It’s way past lights out, and Mickey has been tossing and turning for hours, unable to stop the damn thoughts in his head. 

He’s so wound up he’s shaking a little. 

“Hey,” comes Ian’s voice from above, startling Mickey, “you awake?” 

“Yeah,” Mickey sighs. 

Mickey feels the top bunk shift around, and before he knows it Ian is on the ground, staring at Mickey expectantly. “Mind if I join you?” 

“Knock yourself out,” Mickey mutters, scooting closer to the wall to allow Ian room- the redhead takes up a lot of space, the stupid tall idiot. Ian makes himself right at home, grabbing hold of Mickey like he’s his favorite teddy bear. 

“Heard you moving around a lot. Can’t sleep?” 

“Guess not.” 

“Wanna talk about it?” 

“Talk about what? I can’t sleep. It’s not that deep man.” 

Ian’s sighs, “whatever you say Mick.” 

“It’s nothing. I’m just being stupid,” Mickey admits. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, turning to Ian and burrowing into him, getting as close as he can possibly get. 

“Guessing you’re not gonna tell me what you’re supposedly being stupid about?” Ian gently asks. He moves his hands to get underneath Mickey’s tank top, and soothingly runs a big hand up and down Mickey’s back. 

“Hmm,” Mickey answers Ian, closing his eyes and reveling in the contact. He starting to feel a bit sleepy now that he’s all wrapped up in Ian. He hopes he has a few more years of this. Just a few more years. 

_Please._

“I know you’re not a big talker,” Ian says, and Mickey can’t help but snort in amusement, “but you know you can tell me anything, right?” 

“Yeah, Ian,” Mickey lies, “I know.” He’s starting to feel sleepy now with Ian’s big warm hands soothing him, and he lets his eyes slip closed.

“Good,” Ian takes one hand out from under Mickey’s shirt and uses it to guide Mickey’s head so that he’s looking up at Ian. 

“Fucking what?” Mickey whines. “Was finally starting to feel sleepy.” 

“You sleep better when I’m with you,” the fucker smiles, looking so cocksure and proud of himself. 

Mickey scoffs to hide his embarrassment and tries to turn his head away, but Ian’s still got Mickey’s head in his hand. Ian’s words are true. Whenever Ian is with him in bed, surrounding Mickey’s body with his own, Mickey instantly feels more relaxed. It’s like physics or some bullshit.

“Fuck off,” he tells Ian with all the might he can muster. 

“Don’t be like that,” Ian’s face, which had looked so amused just a moment ago, suddenly takes on a serious expression. “You don’t have to be embarrassed about it. I sleep better too.” 

Mickey can’t help but roll his eyes. “Sure.” 

Ian looks affronted, and his chin pushes out in defiance. “Fuck you, it’s true. I’m always the one who comes to your bed.” 

“Right, cause it would be so smart for me to jump up to the top bunk so everyone can look in and see us spooning.” 

“I just mean I’m the one who initiates this most of the time. Because I want it. What would make you even think I don’t want it as much as you? Or more?”

Mickey blinks. He… well he doesn’t really have a good reason. Ian’s always been affectionate, but for the past few months, he’s been doubly so, always seeking Mickey out, and slipping into the bottom bunk when it’s safe. Mickey has no logical reason to support Ian ever indicating he isn’t more than willing and eager to cuddle with Mickey like a couple of girls. He’s been invading Mickey’s personal space in ways that include more than just sex since the word go. 

The only reason Mickey really thinks of Ian as not wanting Mickey at night, is cause he still remembers all his sleepless nights from before, grabbing onto a pillow and trying to pretend it was Ian. He thinks of all the dreams he’s had of Ian, only to wake up to an empty bed. Of that first week in Mexico, when he hardly slept, and every night put on a shit Ian had accidentally left behind, finding he could catch a few hours of shut-eye when enveloped in Ian’s shirt. That is, until Mickey got real angry drunk one night, and decided to light the shirt on fire in his fit of rage- right after he threw the stupid burner phone he’d used to contact Ian down a sewer. When he’d realized what he’d done he’d cried for nearly an hour, lamenting the loss of the one item of Ian’s he had, and then continued drinking until he got blackout drunk, and woke up in a puddle of his own vomit. Mickey doubts Ian has ever had any sleepless nights due to Mickey’s absence from his bed. 

But maybe thinking that’s unfair. Ian wants him now, and isn’t that what counts? 

“I dunno,” Mickey allows, refusing to meet Ian’s eyes. 

“Cause there isn’t any good reason to think that. I feel better when I got you in my arms.” 

“Alright you fucking sap.” 

Ian smiles brightly, clearly taking Mickey’s words as a victory. “Love you too.” 

And there it is. Those stupid fucking words again. Of course, Ian goes and says them when Mickey is most vulnerable and least expecting them. 

Mickey’s too tired to fret over them right now though. He already feels himself drifting off, and he pushes his head under Ian’s chin until the top of his head bumps Ian’s jaw. He’s so tired he doesn’t even register the words he’s saying out loud to Ian as his eyes slip shut, and he fades to unconsciousness. “Know you think so.” 

Because he’s already halfway asleep, he doesn’t notice Ian’s body tense around him at the muttered word. He distantly notices Ian’s arms grab hold of him even tighter than before, but his sleeping self doesn’t think anything of it, and only welcomes the added closeness. 

…

They’re fighting. Nonstop. 

It started a few weeks ago, with Ian getting a little snippy about some of Mickey’s cleaning habits (or lack thereof), which leads to Mickey getting annoyed and blowing up at Ian in kind. Mickey’s never been good about controlling his anger. It’s been escalating, and Mickey hasn’t been helping, but Ian isn’t exactly being a joy to live with either. 

At least the I love you’s have stopped. With Ian’s new fucking attitude, all the sappy shit he’d been doing previously has disappeared almost entirely. Mickey isn’t sure he could take it on top of all the fighting, so he’s glad Ian has stopped saying it. 

Except… well he’s also worried. Ian’s probably decided he doesn’t want Mickey anymore, and Mickey is waiting with bated breath for Ian to announce it. 

Fuck. 

Mickey should just clean his goddamn shit, and stop clicking his pen. He wants to make Ian happy. He does. More than anything. But then Ian makes some bitchy comment and Mickey finds himself making a bigger mess than he normally would, and clicking his pen more insistently. 

They’re not banging as often either. Only once or twice a week, which for them is saying something. Mickey worries that maybe Ian is bored of him. Not just bored of Mickey as a person, but bored of Mickey’s body. Mickey’s always known with great assuredness that Ian loves his body; he’s under no delusions how hot Ian gets for him. When he’d escaped from prison and found Ian had moved on entirely, with a job and a boyfriend, Mickey had known his only way to get to Ian was with his body. Without Ian’s insatiable desire for Mickey’s body, he probably would have never even agreed to see Mickey at the docks. And then once Mickey had him there, Mickey used his body to lure Ian back. He had known without a shadow of a doubt I and wouldn’t refuse. 

But what if Ian has started to lose that desire? What if it’s calmed down, and now Ian can look at Mickey with clear eyes, and realize Mickey doesn’t have anything left to offer. He’s just a warm mouth. 

Mickey’s so horrified by the idea that he gets a little desperate. Alternating between pouncing on Ian, and pushing Ian away, afraid Ian will look at his body and find it wanting. 

Then comes the blow. 

“Wait… are you dumping me?” Mickey demands, more shocked than he probably should be given the circumstances. Ian’s going on about stabbing Chester for some reason and sending himself to fucking solitary. 

Mostly what Mickey gets from the conversation is Ian is willing to get himself thrown in solitary just to get away from him.

“We need a break,” Ian explains like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Like it’s no big deal. Guess to him, it isn’t. 

“Fuck you!” 

“We can’t keep going on like this.” 

“Okay you want a break? I’ll give you a break. I’m gonna stab Chester, and I’m gonna go to solitary.” 

“What are you talking about?” 

“You’re not dumping me, I’m dumping you. Where’s the shiv?” 

Mickey begins to search the room for his shiv, anything to distract himself from his crumpled relationship. Ian’s calling it a break. Fucking whatever. A break is just a shortened version of the word breakup- Mickey can read between the fucking lines. 

Everything that happens after that is mostly a blur. Fighting their way out of the cell to get to Chester, and then Mickey grabbing the shiv and stabbing him. He’s desperate to go to solitary at that point. Wants to not see anything that reminds him of Ian ever again. He’ll just sit in a sterile cell all by himself, no annoying goddamn ginger around to bother him, and break his heart. 

Unfortunately, neither of them get sent to solitary, and by the end of the night, their stuck in their cell together, once again bickering. 

“This can’t go on,” Ian informs Mickey from the top bunk. 

Mickey is lying in bed and doing his best not to cry about his life. He doesn’t remember when he became such a pussy, but he knows it’s all Ian’s fault. 

“Well it’s not going on since it’s over,” Mickey bites out, proud of himself that his voice is steady. 

“It’s not over Mick,” Ian’s voice is tired and annoyed, and Mickey feels even worse. Like he’s a burden Ian has to deal with. “We just need to take a break.” 

“Sure. A breakup. Whatever bitch. I don’t care.” 

“ _Not_ a breakup. We just need to cool off, you know? Stay away from each other.” 

“Fine,” Mickey says through gritted teeth. “We’ll divide the cell in the morning. Fifty-fifty. Don’t even need a lawyer for the divorce. I’ll be a real gentleman about it.” 

“It’s not a goddamn divorce! I don’t want to end this. We just need-”

“Yeah, I fucking get it Gallagher,” Mickey cuts him off. “Tell yourself whatever you want. I’m beat.” 

…

Despite Ian’s frequent denials that they're broken up, it sure as hell feels like they are to Mickey. They’ve divided the cell and hardly talk to each other except when necessary. Mickey finds himself looking for excuses to be mad at Ian just so he can bark at him as a reason to talk. 

They haven’t fucked in a week and a half. 

Mickey is close to sticking their shiv up his ass just for some goddam release. Seeing Ian walk around the cell half-naked most of the time isn’t good for his newfound celibacy. He feels a bit better at least when he catches Ian staring at him while he’s standing shirtless at the sink, cleaning his armpits with soap and water. It’s good to know he isn’t the only one being tortured at the site of their _former_ (“yes Ian, former!”) lover. 

Currently, he is pointedly not staring at Ian’s muscled arms as he signs for a letter at the door. Seriously, would it kill the guy to just wear the jumpsuit like a normal fucking human being? Why does he feel the need to show off his stupid arms like that? Not like they’re all that great anyway. They’re pale and freckly, and-

“From the parole board.” Ian says, and Mickey’s heart flies into his throat. 

_No_ , he thinks. _Not yet? Right? It’s too soon. Too soon. It can’t be._

“Oh shit. I have a hearing on the tenth!” 

Oh. 

Their time is up. 

Mickey thinks of the promise of three to five years. He’d been stupid to even hope for such a thing. Rule number one of his godforsaken life is that nothing good ever lasts for Mickey Milkovich. 

“Thought I’d be here at least a year, didn’t you?” Ian asks, like it’s not exactly what Mickey is thinking about. Ian doesn’t look torn up about it. Mickey can see the undercurrent of excitement vibrating throughout his body. Mickey isn’t even a consideration. Missing him doesn’t even occur to Ian. “Yo, you hear me? I have a hearing on the tenth.” 

“I heard you,” Mickey manages to say. 

“And?” Ian asks, clearly expecting a big celebration. That goddamn mother fucker. Gingers really are fucking soulless. 

“What? You got a parole meeting man, good for you.” Mickey’s anger is apparent in his tone, but he thinks he manages to hide most of his feelings (like the overwhelming urge to cry), and then he’s blessedly saved by the door opening for rec time, giving Mickey the ability to get the fuck out of the cell as fast as he can, not even bothering to hear if Ian has anything else he wants to say. 

He tries not to think about it. They’re sort of broken up anyway, what does it matter? It just… it kind of fucking hurts that Ian doesn’t even factor Mickey into the equation. Mickey knows if he were in Ian’s shoes, Ian would be the first person he thought about. But that’s where the two of them differ Mickey guesses. And where their loves differ. Unconditional versus conditional. Fucking whatever. See if Mickey cares. He’ll just find some guy to fuck once Ian’s gone. It’ll kinda suck because he sort of hates topping; okay not sort of, he _really_ hates topping, but bottoming in prison with some random dude is too dangerous. Mickey will have to figure it out pretty soon though. The tenth is coming up real quick, and Ian’s been a model prisoner. He’s got it in the bag. 

Mickey fills his day absolutely not thinking about Ian’s parole, or staring at Ian, or thinking about the clearly fake I love yous from weeks before. But as always, everything leads back to Ian, and though he manages to avoid him, for a while at least, he’s forced back into his cell eventually for the night. 

Ian is silent, as per the new norm, and so is Mickey, doodling mindlessly to distract himself. When he gets up to take his nightly dump Ian decides it’s the most opportune time to start a conversation with Mickey. God, Mickey misses having a bathroom where he could close the door. He’s not embarrassed about going in front of Ian, they’re too comfortable with each other for that, but he misses the privacy. 

Ian’s rambling to Mickey, saying, “I think we need to have a talk,” and oh, okay here they go. Time for things to end. Mickey can do this. He’s been preparing for this. He’ll end things here and now if Ian doesn’t beat him to it. But did Ian have to bring it up while he’s taking a goddamn shit? 

Mickey responds on autopilot, getting off the toilet as quick as he can.

“Well, do you or do you not want to be in a long-distance relationship when I’m out?” Ian questions. 

“No,” Mickey says easily, back turned. He’s glad he has an excuse not to look at Ian when he does this. “This a fucking rom-com movie? You’re gonna be out there fucking other people. So will I. No long distance.”

“Can’t we just, like, wait for each other?” There’s not going to be long-distance or waiting of any kind, and Mickey frankly thinks its cruel of Ian to try and trick him otherwise. 

“So great, now we’re in a fucking horror movie.” Mickey turns to see Ian looking dejected, and it only fuels Mickey's anger. “Look, it would be one thing if you felt differently about leaving, but you don’t.” There he said it. He’s laid his cards on the table. Pat himself on the back, he’s growing as a person, talking about how he feels and shit. 

Ian jumps off the bed, intruding on Mickey’s side of the cell. “What does that mean?” 

“It means that if there was a part of you that felt maybe, you owed it to me to throw your-” Mickey stumbles over the words, nervous about declaring his feelings so brazenly, “to throw your parole hearing so that you could stay in here because I threw my whole fuckin’ life away gettin’ tossed in here to be with you. Then we’d at least be having a different conversation.” 

Ian puts a hand up, clearly hurt and confused by Mickey’s words. “I didn’t ask you to do that.” 

No. Ian didn’t. Ian probably didn’t even think of Mickey until he showed up in his cell. And Ian would never do anything of the kind for Mickey. Ian will never understand. He’ll never understand what it’s like to love somebody so much they’ll do anything for them. Or maybe Ian does understand, just not when it comes to Mickey. 

“No, I just did it cause it was the right thing.” 

“You want me to tank my parole hearing on purpose, so I’m stuck in prison with you?” The outrage in Ian’s voice cuts deeper than Mickey would care to admit, as does the complete lack of understanding on Ian’s end. 

“I’m not asking you for shit Gallagher.” 

“You want me to choose to do it without you asking.” Seriously, fuck Ian for making it sound so petty and unreasonable that Mickey wants the man he loves, who claims to love him, to not at least be a little upset at their impending separation. 

There’s more yelling, mostly on Ian’s end, and somehow it ends with Ian saying he’s going to fuck up his parole meeting, but the way he says it makes it crystal clear to Mickey he’s not doing it out of any kind of love, but rather obligation. That stings more than anything. 

…

Talking to Terry’s fuckhead friends was helpful. It also hurt like a bitch because it confirmed that Mickey was in the wrong, but it was good to talk it out with somebody, nonetheless. He heard the words he needed to hear, even if they stung. 

_“You can’t make somebody love you. You can’t make somebody throw their parole for you neither, son.”_

Right. Mickey knows what he has to do. Part one is obviously stopping Ian from shankingthat dude- seriously could Ian and his buddies be any less discreet about their plans? Part two involves somehow finagling a phone from one of the guards. Mickey’s already found a new guy, softer around the edges than some of the older guards, who promised to help him out for a fee. Part two wasn’t all that helpful, except to give Ian something to look forward to and ease his mind over Lip and the baby. Proof for Ian of Mickey’s love and devotion or whatever. Just to show Ian that Mickey doesn’t begrudge him anything. 

Mickey’s only a little surprised when Ian pushes back against him so he can stab the guy and fuck up his parole. 

“I wanna be with you!” Ian demands. 

“You don’t get to be.” Mickey responds bluntly. 

Ian’s breathing kinda hard, but he’s calming down a bit Mickey thinks. “I wanna be where you are Mickey.” 

“You don’t belong in here Gallagher,” Mickey tells him, listing off his family as a reason, but it doesn’t seem to appease Ian as much as Mickey thought it would, because he’s pacing and shaking his head, clearly distressed. Shit, Mickey really fucked him up, didn’t he? “I’ll get out soon. I shouldn’t of asked you to stay,” he adds on. 

Mickey hates himself for making Ian think he has to do something like this, even though deep down Mickey knows Ian doesn’t want it. And who would want to be stuck in prison anyway? (Well Mickey, if Ian’s there. But like Nana said, he has to let Ian go or it will only make Ian resent him. _Can’t make somebody love you_.)

Quietly, and looking like he’s about to start crying, Ian says, “I love you.” 

_This again_. 

“I know,” _In your own way_ , Mickey tacks on silently. Then he says the words he swore he’d never say again, but he’ll do it, for Ian. “Love you too.” 

…

“Facetime your brother. See the baby.” Mickey pats Ian on his leg and Ian gratefully grabs Mickey’s arm for just a moment. Mickey does his best not to look. He hears the guard tell Ian he’s got five minutes, and Mickey slides into his bunk, throwing the covers over his body, and turning to face the wall. 

The phone rings and then soon enough Lip picks up. Ian of course asks to see the baby first thing, and the two brothers start getting sappy and shit over the phone. The voice of Lip is startlingly familiar considering Mickey hasn’t heard it in years.

Lip. Ian’s family. 

Mickey’s gift will help solidify for Ian where he needs to be, which is with his family. It’ll help him realize all he has waiting for him on the outside. 

It’ll probably also make him realize what he doesn’t need. Or who. 

Mickey doesn’t even have the opportunity to swallow back his tears, they just suddenly appear, and Mickey doesn’t know how to stop them. He buries his face in his pillow and squeezes his eyes shut to stop tears from leaking, but some come through anyway. 

This is it. 

It’s over. 

Mickey fucking knew. He knew this was gonna happen, but not so soon. He was promised a few years. A couple at least. But he doesn’t even get one. 

Mickey tries his best to ignore the words coming out of Ian’s mouth, and Lip’s through the phone. But he can’t quite block out Lip telling Ian, “Fuck man, we really miss you out here. I wish you could meet Freddie in person. I’ll try to take him on a visit soon when I got some spare time.” 

“Well,” Ian responds, and Mickey’s stomach drops and rolls, “I might get to meet him sooner than I thought.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I got a parole hearing coming up.” 

“Oh my god! Ian! That’s- you’re gonna get out! Fuck!” 

Mickey feels an unwelcome sob threatening to make its way out his throat, but Mickey refuses to open his mouth. He goes back to trying to block out the noise, but he can’t help but notice the cheering coming out from the phone, and the hopeful sound of Ian’s voice. He’s so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he doesn’t even notice when the five minutes are up and Ian gives back the phone to the guard; he startles when he feels a hand wrap around his torso and stubble rubbing against his neck as Ian places fervent kisses down it. Mickey holds his breath, as tears silently roll down his cheeks. 

“Thank you,” Ian tells him between kisses. “Thank- you- so- much. Mick-” Abruptly, Ian stops the kissing and Mickey is glad. He can’t do this. Not now. Not tonight. He’ll be fine in the morning, but Ian just has to get the fuck off him. “Mickey? Hey, Mick? Can you look at me?” 

Mickey doesn’t know how to get Ian to go away. Pretending to be excited is not something he’s capable of right now. He just needs time to grieve. Can’t Ian give him that fucking much? He got him the fucking phone, so can’t Ian just give him the gift of mourning? 

_I’m letting you go. I’m setting you free like Nana said. What more do you want from me? I don’t have anything else to give._

All Mickey can think to do is not move, and hope it stops Ian from trying anything further. Like a small animal caught by a predator who freezes and hopes that if it doesn’t move the hunter won’t see it and kill it. It’s an apt comparison, Mickey thinks vaguely. 

“Please turn around,” Ian near pleads, voice taking on a strange edge to it, but Mickey won’t budge. What he doesn’t anticipate is Ian simply using his big, stupid hands to turn Mickey’s body until he’s facing Ian, face falling when he looks at Mickey, who refuses to meet his eyes. “Oh Mick,” Ian swipes at the tears on Mickey’s cheeks. 

A small part of Mickey wants to give in and cry. Ian’s enough of a soft bitch that he’d probably let Mickey cry into his shoulder, but Mickey can’t do that. Mickey doesn’t have all that much pride when it comes to Ian. He’s probably a softer bitch than Ian is, and anyone can fucking see it. Mickey gave up his actual freedom for the man, so it’s not like Ian doesn’t know how Mickey feels. Allowing himself to cry like a little bitch though? No. No, that won’t be happening. Mickey has to face facts. Time to move the fuck on and let go. Not that Mickey will ever let go- _could_ ever let go. Ian though… Ian’s a different story.

Mickey had assured Ian he’d be out soon, but he won’t be. He has six more years left to his sentence, and besides that, it won’t take Ian long to move on and find somebody newer and better. Somebody not locked up in prison, who Ian can take out on that date he and Mickey never had. By the time Mickey gets out, Ian will have moved on with his life. 

_I love you._

_This isn’t me anymore._

Mickey thinks those sentences were the hardest he ever had to hear because Ian hadn’t meant he loved him. What he was telling Mickey was he was a good lay, but he’d moved on with his life and had something better. “This isn’t me anymore” had actually meant, “you aren’t what I want anymore,” and Mickey knows with Ian gone, history is doomed to repeat itself all over again.

Mickey can see it now. Ian will come visit him in jail, and each time will be fewer and farther between. Eventually, the visits will stop altogether. Mickey will go to Ian once he’s released from prison because Mickey can’t help himself, he can’t resist. No matter what happens, he’ll always try and find his way back to Ian and force himself back into his life- he’s pathetic like that. Ian’s boyfriend will answer the door when Mickey comes, and he’ll ask Ian who the fuck the guy with rude tattoos on his knuckles is. “Oh him?” Ian will laugh. “Just some guy I dated when I was roughing it.” 

That’s all Mickey’s ever been doomed to be. The rough ex-boyfriend to be replaced by gentler, hotter boyfriends, who have actual futures, and can take care of people like Mickey will never be able to do. Sometimes Mickey wonders if Ian ever mentioned him to any of his exes, and what he said about Mickey. 

Mickey shuts his eyes, and holds onto the silence for a moment, pushing his emotions back inside himself where they belong, and then he breaks away from Ian’s hold, all but throwing himself off the bed. He stands, facing the door and away from Ian. He’s not crying anymore, but his chest aches and his eyes sting in a way that tells him he could cry and cry for days if he let himself. He won’t let himself. 

He takes a steadying breath before saying, “I’m fine.” His voice sounds a bit rough, but it’s fine. It’s all fine. 

“Don’t,” Ian tells him. “Don’t you-” Ian’s voice breaks and Mickey whips around to see that Ian’s eyes are red and filled with tears, “Please? Just let me help. _Please_.”

“You can’t do shit, Gallagher. Leave it. Go back to bed.” 

“No.”

“Excuse me?” 

“Telling you no, Mick. I’m gonna sit here all night if I have to. You have to go to bed sometime.” 

“I’ll just use the top bunk genius.” Mickey informs Ian, taking a step forward to climb atop it. 

Before Mickey can so much as blink Ian is standing in front of him, blocking his way. “Mickey,” Ian says gently, so fucking gently, cupping Mickey’s face. “Don’t do this. Don’t push me out.” 

“Why?” Mickey demands petulantly. 

“It’s going to be fine. I promise.” 

Mickey barks out a laugh that even to Mickey’s ears sounds more than a little hysterical. He can tell it startles Ian. “Easy for you to say.” 

“What’s that mean?” 

“It means,” Mickey bites out acidly, pulling his head out of Ian’s grip a bit wildly, “that you’re gonna be on the outside, and you’ll have your family, and a boyfriend, and-”

“You better be fucking talking about yourself when you say ‘boyfriend’! What the fuck?” 

“That’ll be the day,” Mickey can’t help laughing again. “I’m nothing but a placeholder until you can get back to your real life.” 

“That’s- what the fuck? Do you actually think that shit?” 

“What the fuck else am I supposed to think?” Mickey yells loud enough he knows guys five cells down can probably hear him. “I’m just the dirty thug you fucked when you were a teenager. And you thought I was pretty good then because you were used to fucking pedophiles. But, it’s not like that anymore. Hasn’t been for a long time.” 

Mickey has spent years trying to pinpoint when things changed. When Mickey started loving Ian more than Ian loves Mickey. When the power shifted irrevocably. He thinks it was Svetlana. He thinks it was long before bipolar reared its ugly head, or the breakup and all the amazing guys Ian was probably with after. Things were never the same after Mickey’s marriage- They never got back to what they were before that. Mickey can’t think of the wedding and Svetlana, and all that shit without wanting to throw up. He does his level best to never think about it. Even when reminiscing on him and Ian playing house, he carefully picks around Svetlana and the baby. But even those memories are tainted now that he knows Ian was sleeping with a bunch of other guys and then slipping into bed with Mickey afterward. Sometimes, Mickey wishes he’d just told his dad no about that marriage, damned the consequences. And sure, he’d be dead, but at least Ian would- 

“Mickey,” Ian says firmly, “you clearly don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.” 

Mickey lets out an annoyed breath. “Yeah, right. I get it. I’m such a dumb mother fucker. You gotta use small words, short sentences so I can understand what the fuck you’re saying.” 

Ian is staring at him intently. “Ask me to wait for you,” he demands cruelly. 

The floor drops out from under him, and for a brief moment, Mickey feels a bit dizzy. 

_“Fucking lie if you have to man, eight years is a long time.”_

_“Yeah. Yeah, Mick, I’ll wait.”_

“Fuck you,” Mickey snarls. “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you. I don’t want your goddam lies anymore.”

“I’m not lying! Mick,” he reaches out, but Mickey swats his hand like it’s poison, and backs further away from Ian. “Please. I’m going to-” Ian breathes out. “You know what? Fine. I’ll just stab that fat fuck tomorrow. Stay in here with you so I can fucking show you-”

“No,” Mickey cuts off before Ian can try and do anything stupid again. “You’re getting out of here.” 

_Set him free, set him free_ , Mickey repeats to himself, like a mantra. 

“Well you’re not doing a good job of convincing me when you’re acting like this. Talking like- like I’m just gonna hop on the next dick I see. I love you, Mick. I _love_ you.” 

Mickey’s shoulders drop. “Look man, once you’re out? That won’t-” Mickey shrugs helplessly, and waves his hands vaguely. “You didn’t miss me before, and you won’t miss me later. And that’s fine. I wasn’t trying to make a big deal- I didn’t want you to see me like that. I’ve been okay before. I will be again. I just needed a moment.” 

Ian says nothing for a long while, and Mickey is relieved, thinking he’s finally shut Ian up. He moves forward and starts to walk around Ian to get back into bed, but before he can get in, Ian grabs both his wrist, pulling them up in the air, and turns him around. His wrists smack hard up against the edge of the top bunk, as Ian crowds against Mickey, locking him in place. If the circumstances were different Mickey would make a bondage joke. 

“You have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about,” Ian’s voice is rough and dangerous, barley suppressed anger bubbling through. “Last I checked you can’t read my fucking mind, so where do you get off telling me I didn’t miss you?” 

“Told it to me yourself when we met at the docks. About how you had your shit together? Your perfect life. A boyfriend.” 

“Then I spent the night with you. What does that tell you, Mick?” 

“That I still know how to get you hot.” 

“It means I never stopped thinking about you.” 

“Glad to know my ass left an impression.” 

Ian’s face is red, and he tightens his hold on Mickey’s wrists so much that Mickey is pretty sure he’s going to leave bruises. “It means I thought about you every day. Means every time I tried to move on, I couldn’t. I felt nothing for any of those guys I was with because I was so full of you! You’re it for me, Mickey. You have been it for me since I was fifteen, and nothing could ever change that. I was all fucked up when I dumped you, and when I saw you locked up in prison… I wasn’t myself, and I didn’t think I was ever going to be again. To be honest I didn’t… I don’t think I even realized what was going on. Didn’t hit me until a couple months later what I’d done. And by the time I realized what a mistake I’d made, you were locked up, and what else could I fucking do but try to keep going on with my life?”

Mick shakes his head. “What about after?” 

“What?” 

“You dump me cause you’re all fucked up. Sure. But then you say you realized you missed me, but you never called or wrote. Nothing. Then I escape and you- Why the fuck did you have to lead me on like that? First, you were so hot and cold. I thought I didn’t have a chance. When I met you at the docks, I thought it was going to be the last time I ever saw you again. Then you had to go ahead and jump in that fucking car. Did you know? That when you got in you were going to end up leaving? Did you plan it?” 

“ _No_ ,” Ian denies, looking horrified. “I wanted to be with you. The moment I saw you ag-,” Mickey snorts in disbelief. “It’s true! I put up my token protests because I had to. But then when I finally kissed you again, I knew I couldn’t- I had to have you again. It was… being with you again after all that time was indescribable. An-”

“Like I said. My ass left an impression.” 

“It’s not about sex. Not to me. I thought you knew that?” 

Mickey shrugs. “Don’t got much else to offer.” 

Ian’s face does this weird thing like he’s simultaneously disgusted, and also trying to figure out a particularly difficult math problem. “That’s not true. D-don’t say that again. No. I won’t let you.” 

“Why? Can’t handle the truth?” 

“It’s not the truth! How could you even think that for a second? When I was with you again after all that time it was like finally coming home. Like I’d been holding my breath and could now _breathe_. I was going to go to Mexico with you. But then I thought about my family, and never seeing them again, and I couldn’t do it. But it wasn’t about you Mickey. You gotta believe that. I love you. I always have, and I always will. And I don’t know what I have to do to prove that to you, but I will.” 

_Not about_ me, Mickey wants to laugh. Sure. Except that Ian is always going to choose his family over Mickey no matter what. Maybe if Mickey had a real family, he’d be able to wrap his head around it. Whose Mickey to judge when he doesn’t even know what it’s like to have what Ian does? Maybe Mickey would do the same thing if he had siblings who loved him. All he knows is he’d do anything for Ian. 

Mickey sags, and stares down at the ground so hard he starts seeing double. “You don’t gotta prove shit to me, Gallagher.” 

Ian makes a frustrated noise from the back of his throat. “I clearly do Mick.” 

Mickey shakes his head. “No, no. It’s fine. I ask too much. I know it. Just. Let’s go to bed. Alright?” 

“ _Mickey_ -”

“Please, Ian.” 

For a moment Ian doesn’t respond, but then he finally nods and releases Mickey who quickly gets into bed, curling up around himself. He expects it when Ian joins him, but he doesn’t like it. 

“You should get back up there. Guards will be pissed if they see you down here.” 

“Later,” Ian promises, who is spooned up behind him, face so close Mickey can feel his breath on his face. He grabs hold of one of Mickey’s hands, rubbing at his tattooed knuckles. Mickey can’t help but remember how he used to wake up in Ian’s embrace nearly every morning, his hand always clutched in Ian’s. They still do it now when spooning, but it’s not the same when you don’t get to wake up to it. 

_Ian will find somebody to do that with again soon_ , a traitorous voice in Mickey’s head informs him, and Mickey feels a fresh wave of tears. He sniffles pathetically, but before he can even think about getting up and away from Ian, the other man tightens his hold and leans closer. 

“I’m going to wait for you. I know you don’t believe me, but I will. I couldn’t move on from you if I tried.” 

“Sure you can,” Mickey can’t help but say. “You have before.” 

“Didn’t though. Was just filling my days without you. You know I-” Ian cuts himself off and lets out a long breath. “Never mind.”

Well now Mickey’s curious. He turns around so he’s facing Ian, and looks up at him curiously. “You what?” 

Ian closes his eyes and leans his forehead against Mickey’s. “You know when I got back after leaving you at the border I… well, I sorta lost it. Monica died and that fucked me up, but… mostly I couldn’t stop thinking of you. I guess I was doing good before you came, but that’s only because I’d learned to live without you. Learned to live without this… this thrill you give me or whatever. Then I had you back and- this is gonna sound lame- but it was like I was living in black and white before? I’m not proud of how I acted after I ended things. I made up this false reality, changed our relationship in my head so it was easier. I know it was wrong and fucked up, but it’s all I could do to cope. And then you came back and everything was in technicolor, and all the lies I’d been telling myself just fell away. I didn’t know how to deal with it when you were gone again- when I left you again. I stopped taking my pills because,” Ian takes a deep breath and a pause before he manages to continue, “thought it’d help, you know? Thought maybe I could get back to color if I was manic.” 

“Fuck, Ian-”

“I know it was stupid. You don’t have to tell me that. But it’s what I did. And it helped a bit I guess, but not really. Still missed you, even then. I- I don’t know if I’d change what I did. Going over the border with you, being a fugitive? Don’t think I coulda done it. And I’m sorry. I am. But know that I’m going to do everything in my power to never have to live in a world without you again. Not fucking ever, okay? I’m going to wait however long it fucking takes until you’re out, and back to me. It’s not going to be like last time. And I’m gonna visit, I swear. As much as I can.” 

Mickey wipes his tears away with the back of his hand. “You know… you’re gonna have to live without me. Least while you’re on parole.” 

“I know it won’t be the same. But I’m going to visit, and you better fucking call me, and-” 

“Ian- it’s against the law to be in contact with inmates and other parolees when you’re on parole.” 

“No, it’s- no it’s not,” Ian’s eyes shoot wide open, and his voice takes on a hysterical edge. “Terry and your brothers were always living in the same house when-”

“Exceptions are granted for family members, Ian.” 

“Well we can- we can figure something out so that I can.” 

Mickey can’t think of an answer to that, so he just holds his tongue, not wanting to freak Ian out whose eyes are dancing wildly around the room as if in search of an answer.

“Okay,” Mickey agrees. 

“I’m not doing that again. Mickey, I’m not going to live out there without any contact with you. I’m not!” Ian’s voice has gone shrill and high, and he’s clutching onto Mickey desperately. 

“Maybe you can talk to your lawyer about it or something,” Mickey tries to keep his voice low and calm, even though he doesn’t believe the words he’s saying. “But you might have to live without me.” 

“I won’t fucking do it. No. I’ll fuck up my hearing before I gotta-”

“No you won’t Ian,” Mickey tells him wearily. “You’ll keep taking your meds, and you’ll deal with it. Find a warm mouth an-”

“Fuck you Mickey,” Ian snarls, pushing at Mickey fiercely so his back hits the wall with a dull thud. 

“Ugh, _fuck_ ,” Mickey grumbles rubbing at his back. “What is this, manhandle Mickey day? I didn’t mean it like that. Just that six years is a long time and-”

“Shut the fuck up. This your way of telling me you’re gonna find somebody else as soon as I get outta here?” 

“Fuck off. No, it’s not.”

“Then stop staying shit like that. You’re mine, Mick. Nobody else’s.” 

Mickey rolls his eyes at the dramatics. “What, you gonna piss on me? Mark your territory?” 

“If I have to, sure,” Ian says in a much too serious voice for Mickey’s liking. 

“That’s disgusting. Piss off with that shit.” 

“Sure,” Ian agrees easily, at Mickey’s poor choice of phrasing, and then he gives Mickey a wicked smile that goes straight to Mickey’s dick. He grabs Mickey and shoves him off the wall so he’s lying flat on his back. “You’re mine to do what I want with.” 

Mickey’s eyebrows shoot straight up. “Oh yeah? Who says?” 

“Well me for one-”

“Cocky bastard, ain’t ya?” 

“And you for another,” Ian goes on undeterred. “Always liked me staking my claim.” He straddles Mickey and grabs his wrists roughly to restrain. 

“Oh do I?” Mickey asks vaguely, breath coming in short pants of arousal, and dick twitching curiously in his boxers. 

“Mmmm,” Ian hums. “But clearly I have to remind you.” He’s trailing kisses along Mickey’s neck, then stops, biting at one spot and sucking insistently. 

“Gotta be kidding me,” Mickey pretends to be annoyed. “Marking me up like a teenager? Really?” 

Ian doesn’t respond, just continues to suck a hickey onto Mickey’s neck, and Mickey decides to start bucking his crotch against Ian’s, rubbing his clothed dick against his. Ian groans in response, but, doesn’t move his mouth from Mickey’s neck.

Deciding to take it a step further Mickey wraps his leg’s around Ian’s body, using them to pull him closer, and slows down his grinding until it’s tortuously slow. This seems to get Ian moving, who comes up for air with a pop as his lips leave Mickey’s neck. 

“Fucking finally,” Mickey informs Ian, voice a tad petulant. 

“You want it?” Ian whispers in his ear. He starts grinding with Mickey, and then maneuverers his body and Mickey’s so that his dick is aligned with Mickey’s hole, and he starts rubbing his dick against it. 

“Oh god,” Mickey breathes. “Fuck. Please. Please,” he begs. 

“Well since you asked so nicely,” Ian releases Mickey’s hands from his grip, and leans off the bed to presumably search for a packet of mayonnaise. “Lift up a bit baby,” Ian tells him, pulling down his boxers as he gets on top of Mickey. 

Mickey does as he’s told and is rewarded with a finger working his way inside him. Meanwhile, Mickey worms his hands down Ian’s boxers, and grabs hold of his dick while Ian gets Mickey prepped. 

By the time Ian has four fingers in, Mickey is aching for it, little wines escaping from his mouth as he begs Ian, “now, now, please now.” Warmth is pooling in his lower belly and he just wants Ian inside him. Mickey pushes Ian’s boxers down desperately, writhing on the mattress in aching arousal. Then, fucking finally, Ian pushes inside him, and Mickey can’t suppress the moan that comes out of his mouth. It stings, because a packet of goddamn mayonnaise isn’t exactly all that helpful in the grand scheme of things, and Ian has to take it slow while Mickey adjusts to his length inside him. 

Mickey wraps his arms around Ian and hides his face in his neck as he adjusts. “You good?” Ian asks after a time, and Mickey nods against him, grabbing hold of Ian more tightly as he begins to move. 

Ian grabs Mickey’s dick for him so Mick can keep his arms wrapped around Ian, for which he’s grateful. Sometimes he likes just holding onto Ian and letting him do the work. Ian’s rhythm takes up a brutal pace once Mickey is ready. 

“So good for me baby,” Ian praises Mickey, who nods, and rolls his hips so he can take even more of Ian, who automatically groans in response. “Ah. So, so fucking good. Nobody else is good like you. You know that? Nobody like you. My good boy.” 

Ian pulls his body back, taking Mickey with him so that they’re both now sitting, Mickey situated in his lap. He groans as they both have to readjust themselves and get the pace back up, but in no time they’re in a new rhythm. Mickey’s legs are still wrapped around Ian, heels of his feet digging into Ian’s ass as he grinds down against Ian. Ian is squeezing the skin of Mickey’s soft hip, pinching at it in a way that stings but, feels so fucking good. His mind is blissfully empty right now, only filled with thoughts of _more_ , and _please_ , and _Ian_ _Ian Ian_. Mickey may be saying them out loud, he may not be, he’s not fucking sure of anything anymore except the feeling of Ian all around him that feels so right. This is absolutely the greatest feeling in the world, one he’s never been able to replace. 

“Not going to replace it,” Ian growls, and he sets the pace a little harder, and yanks Mickey’s hair in punishment. 

Oh. Mickey must have been babbling out loud again. 

“Fucking mine Mick, nobody else’s.” 

Mickey nods, so close to the edge it’s almost painful and desperate for release. Finally, he feels himself tip over, quivering uncontrollably until he squirts out between him and Ian, and he drapes himself over Ian, boneless, panting, and feeling like his nerves are on fire as Ian keeps riding him. He catches his breath and holds onto Ian, until Ian soon follow him into orgasm, muffling his groan in Mickey’s hair. 

Mickey sighs in contentment and tries to sit further down on Ian’s cock, not ready for Ian to leave him just yet. 

“God, we made a mess this time,” Ian chuckles, but Mickey, too tired to speak, only responds by making himself more comfortable on Ian’s lap, fully willing to sleep there attached to Ian for the rest of the night. He thinks about how this could be one of the final nights they do this, and it only makes Mickey cling harder, not yet ready to let go. 

“I got you,” Ian reassures him, rubbing circles on his back. Ian scoots backward, jostling Mickey a bit who whimpers in complaint, but Ian is only resting his back against the wall so he can recline a bit while Mickey rests atop him. He resettles himself and Mickey clenches his cheeks to keep Ian inside him. “You good baby?” 

“Mmm,” Mickey tells him- using the other man as a body pillow.

Neither of them are the type who are into pet names except during, and sometimes after sex, Ian likes to call Mickey terms of endearment, usually “baby.” The first time Ian had called him baby had been after Mickey’s first stint in juvie. Ian had been balls deep inside him, and Mickey had almost come instantly when he heard the name. After that, Ian started saying the name more frequently, even, at times, after sex, when Mickey was too tired and out of it to protest at the name… much. Mickey will never admit on pain of death that he’s grown to like the pet name, and the way it makes him feel. It’s stupid, but when he hears it, he gets these spikes of excitement going up and down his chest. 

Ian pokes at Mickey’s neck and Mickey groans. “Stop that. Tryin’ to sleep,” he complains. 

“Can’t stay here all night,” Ian points out, very rudely in Mickey’s opinion. 

Mickey just “ _humphs_ ” in response, and refuses to move in protest. Ian doesn’t move either, much to Mickey’s delight. He just runs his hands all over Mickey’s body, and occasionally drops a kiss on his forehead. It feels so good, and Mickey is filled with a sort of contentment unique to the sleepy, post-sex haze of nighttime. Morning sex is probably Mickey’s favorite, but he’ll never say no to the feeling of falling asleep wrapped up in Ian. He shuts his mind off and focuses on touch and feel alone. 

Eventually Mickey’s eyes start to close, and Ian must realize he’s about to fall asleep because he very gently starts to move. Mickey makes incoherent noises of protest but allows Ian to extricate himself, and hop off the bunk. Mickey curls up without bothering to find a pillow or pull a blanket over himself, and simply lies there waiting for Ian’s return. Ian snorts at the sight of him a few seconds later, with wet toilet paper that he uses to wipe Mickey clean. He then rolls Mickey onto his back so he can pull off his cum covered undershirt, which Mickey doesn’t help him with at all. Finally, when Ian is content with the cleanliness of everything, he gets back into bed. It’ll only be for a little while Mickey knows, but it’s still nice to have him in bed while he can. 

_Every moment counts._

… 

“Turns out being Gay Jesus has its advantages,” Ian declares triumphantly, barreling into their cell with a wide grin on his face.

“All you can eat blowjobs from your loyal acolytes?” Mickey guesses. He’s lounging on the bed, idly flipping through a copy of _Sports Illustrated_ \- strictly for the articles of course. Ian always gets a little jealous when he sees Mickey looking through the magazine of hot ripped guys, which only encourages Mickey further, cause a jealous Ian is fucking hot. 

“Shuddup. Though if you wanna-”

Mickey rolls his eyes. “Maybe when the door isn’t open. Not into exhibitionism.” 

“Too bad. You have such a pretty mo-”

Mickey interrupts him before any passerby can overhear. “So, what the fuck is the advantage of being the holiest of gays?” 

Ian grins widely. “Got off the phone with my lawyer. He says he’s almost positive he can get us an exception granted with the whole not being able to see each other bullshit. He says he’s gonna play the homophobia card.” 

“Shit. He thinks that’ll work?” 

“Yup! My case got some press coverage, and a lot of gay rights activists think I was wrongfully convicted. Anyway, he says he’ll just threaten to contact the press, say it’s homophobic to not let us see each other, and that it’ll work like a charm. Told me he’s been able to get similar exemptions made before.” 

“Well fuck me. I think I might just have to get on my knees for Gay Jesus tonight. Recite my hail Mary’s.” 

Without warning Ian jumps onto Mickey, and the air whooshes out of him as he adjusts to one hundred and fifty pounds of muscly ginger on top of him. Grimacing at Mickey’s magazine, Ian plucks it from his hands and lets it fall to the floor before leaning down to slot their lips together. 

“Better get used to me, cause I’m gonna visit your ugly mug every chance I get.” 

Mickey smiles and drags him down for another kiss. 

… 

Ian leaves on a Wednesday. 

They shared the bottom bunk the night before, and by some miracle, no guard caught them and made Ian go back to his bed. They had the kind of slow sex that was nostalgic and tinged with sadness. Mickey held onto Ian the entire time, not letting go of him once, and instead of turning away from Ian so they could spoon afterward, Mickey stayed facing Ian. Despite the clingy dramatics of it all Mickey found he didn’t have much emotion left in him. Mostly he felt empty- like Ian was already gone even though he was still right there in Mickey’s arms. 

He’d kept his distance from Ian for most of the day, afraid of being too clingy, and maybe something else. But once they were alone in their cell Mickey couldn’t avoid him, didn’t _want_ to avoid him, and Ian was all over him anyway. But the emotion didn’t come. 

Morning comes too soon. Ian shakes him awake at an ungodly hour, and Mickey is about to complain and flip over to go back to sleep when it hits him. This is the last time. The last morning. The last… Mickey doesn’t allow his mind to tread down that path. Not now anyway, when Ian is staring at him, with eyes that are dry, but bloodshot, a dead giveaway Ian had been crying at some point not long ago. 

Neither of them says anything, they just stay curled around each other for a long while, and Mickey turns to look out the window at the clock every few minutes. 

They have five minutes left.

Five minutes and then Mickey’s whole world is gone- again. 

“Call me every day,” Ian says into the silence. “I haven’t worked out the car situation to visit you yet but-”

“Don’t worry about that.” 

Ian leans out of the embrace enough to glare at Mickey. “I’m fucking visiting you once a week at least.” 

Mickey just nodes once.

“Remember to stay out of trouble,” Ian continues. 

“Don’t I always?” Mickey smirks, and Ian smacks him. “Ow!” 

“I’m fucking serious jackass! You’re not spending any more time in here than you have to. You got that, fucker?” 

Mickey rolls his eyes. “Sir yes sir.”

“ _Mickey_ ,” Ian sighs. “Please be good.” 

“I’ve kept my nose clean so far!” 

“Yeah, cause I was here. But I know you. Without having to worry about watching my back you won’t be as careful.” 

Well… it’s not like Ian is _wrong_.

“Like I fucking said,” Ian says, all smug as if he can read Mickey’s mind. 

“Alright, alright.” 

“And no self-sabotaging!” 

“The fuck are talking about?” 

“No fucking pulling shit because you got too in your goddamn head.” 

Mickey snorts. “Me? Have you met me?” 

“Yeah I have. And that’s why I’m telling you this.” 

Mickey deflates. “Okay, sure.” 

Ian turns to look at the clock. When he’s facing Mickey again his face is drawn tightly, and he’s blinking his eyes rapidly as if to keep from crying. “I’m waiting,” he says firmly. “I’m fucking waiting, and I’m gonna come see you all the damn time. So please don’t make me wait any more than I have to, okay?” 

“Yeah, okay,” Mickey whispers. 

“Okay,” Ian echoes, and tilts his head to draw Mickey in for a kiss. 

_Last kiss_ , Mickey can’t help but think as he puts everything he has into it. Ian’s arms are wrapped around Mickey in that way that always makes him feel small, but not in a bad way- least not when it comes to Ian.

Suddenly, the door swings open, and a guard loudly enters, barking, “break it up, ladies!” 

Reluctantly, Mickey pulls back, and takes a final look at Ian’s face, trying to memorize every curve and line. Taking a deep breath, he puts a hand to Ian's cheek, gently stroking it with his thumb. “Good luck out there, Gallagher.” 

“Time to get a move on Gallagher, you wanna fucking stay in here forever?” The guard shouts. 

Ian’s shoulders tense up, and he nods at Mickey once, before telling him quietly, “I love you, Mick. I’ll see you soon.” 

And then Ian is gone. 

…

He hasn’t called Ian. 

He tried the day after Ian left. Like a big boy, he made the call and waited for Ian to pick up until an automated voice came on to inform him that the person he was trying to reach was unavailable. Mickey couldn’t even leave a goddamn message- fucking prison calls. 

Mickey hasn’t worked up the nerve to call after that. What if Ian had seen the call and let it go to voicemail? Mickey thinks back to the dozens of times he tried to call Ian the first time he was in the joint, each one going unanswered until finally, Mickey stopped trying altogether. 

But on the fifth day, Mickey remembers his promise to Ian that he’d call every day, and he feels so guilty he wants to throw up. Working up all the nerve he can muster, he picks up the stupid goddamn phone and dials. With bated breath, he waits, wondering if he’ll be sent to voicemail again. He wonders if Ian is on the other side telling the fucking robot that he either does or doesn’t want to receive a call from Mickey. When Mickey is informed his call is going through, he almost cries. 

“Mick? Mickey?” Ian’s voice filters through, sounding kinda breathless. 

Mickey clears his throat. “Hey Gallagher.” 

“Why the fuck haven’t you called?” Ian demands, sounding pissy. 

“I did once, but you didn’t pick up. Didn’t wanna bother you too much.”

“I saw I had a missed call. I-I was away from my phone for five fucking seconds and… you call me whenever you can okay? Please. I didn’t… I’ve been out of my mind for days. Lip keeps telling me I’m like a teenage girl staring at my phone so much.” 

Mickey closes his eyes in relief that Ian hadn’t been purposefully ignoring him, but he also feels fucking guilty for making Ian worry like that. “I’m sorry.” 

“No. You- you don’t gotta be sorry. Just call me, okay? I’m trying to bargain with Tami about borrowing her car, but she doesn’t seem to like me much. Don’t think she trusts an ex-con with her car.” 

“Lip sure does know how to pick ‘em. You dying over the baby?” 

“He’s so cute Mick. He looks like Lip too- I swear.” 

“Too bad for the kid.” 

Ian chuckles. “I’m going to take the bus up to the prison once I get my paycheck.” 

“You don’t gotta waste your money like that.” 

“It’s not wasting my goddamn money. It’s putting it to good fucking use. What, you don’t want me to visit?” 

“’ Course I wanna see you, Ian. Just saying that you don’t got much money now, and-”

“Let me handle my finances okay? You don’t want me to come just say it.” 

Mickey swallows and tries to think about how to undo his monumental fuck up. “I want to see you, Ian. So bad. You don’t even fucking know. I’m sorry, okay? I just don’t want you wasting your money on me.” 

Ian blows out a breath on the other end. “Everything I’m doing is for us, Mick. And that includes setting aside cash so we can see each other.” 

“Yeah. Yeah. Okay. I’m sorry.” 

“So,” Ian continues, changing the subject. “You got a new cellmate yet?” 

“Yeah.”

“You safe?” 

Mickey laughs a bit. “He’s just some kid busted for possession. It’s clearly his first stint, and he’s scared shitless. I don’t have to worry about him.”

“Thank fuck.” 

“How’s your parole officer? Busting your ass?” 

Ian chuckles darkly. “You could say that. Everything’s good though.” 

“You sure?” 

“Yeah. I’m sure.” 

It’s the most unconvincing lie Mickey’s ever heard, but he doesn’t want to push Ian after the little blowup, so he pretends to believe him. “How is everyone?” He asks instead. 

“Same old, really. House is a bit more in chaos since Fiona’s gone. Liam… kid needs looking after. Nobody’s watching him anymore.” 

“Well, now that you’re back, he’s got you.”

“Yeah, I guess. I’m no Fiona though.” 

“Fiona left him.” 

“It’s not like that.” 

“Just saying, you think you have this huge thing to live up to. But you’re pretty damn great with kids. Don’t gotta worry about being Fiona. “

“Thanks Mick. I don’t know, it’s just weird without her. I guess she… anchored us all together, and now that she’s gone, we’re scattered to the wind. It sometimes feels like we’re strangers living in a house together. Liam’s basically become a mini adult. And he’s spending too much time with Frank. It’s worrying me.” 

“I thought Debbie was obsessed with being a mom? She’s not looking out for the rugrat?” 

“Not really. She’s good with Franny, but that’s about it. She blew all the money Fiona left.” 

“You fucking serious? Didn’t she used to be smart?” 

Ian huffs out a laugh. “That was a while ago.” 

“Fucking clearly.” 

There’s a brief pause on the line, and Mickey just knows Ian is thinking too hard about something. “What is it?” Mickey asks. “Can hear you thinking through the phone. 

“Just… I miss you.” 

Mickey clears his throat awkwardly. He’s never been good at the verbalizing emotions thing, he’s much more of a man of action. Talking about that shit makes him feel like breaking out in hives. “Yeah. Me too. Don’t miss your goddamn flossing though.” 

Ian laughs but doesn’t humor Mickey’s deflection, “I don’t sleep right without you. I know we weren’t actually sharing a bed, but I knew you were right there, always. Only reason I think I’m actually able to sleep at all is cause my pills make me so sleepy. They got me on new ones actually, so I haven’t been-”

“Fucking what? Why? Thought the ones you were on were good?” 

“They were, but it turns out the prison was actually giving me the good shit for once. Can’t afford that now, so my doc put me on cheaper shit.” 

“Cheaper? Fucking- goddamn bullshit right there. Get Lip drive to goddamn Mexico or Canada so you can get the shit you need.” 

“With all his free time as a new dad?” 

“I don’t fucking ca-” 

“Mick. It’s fine. I’m feeling fine. Promise.” 

“Right,” Mickey agrees mechanically, feeling a bit embarrassed. “Yeah. Sorry. It’s fine. Whatever.” He adds the “whatever” for good measure, so Ian thinks he doesn’t care. So Ian doesn’t know that his heart is in his throat. “You got a job yet?” 

“Y-yeah. Sorta.” 

“The fuck does sorta mean?”

“Nothing.”

“Right,” Mickey scoffs. “Nothing.” Why is Ian hiding his job from Mickey? A thousand reasons are flooding his mind. “You working at Fairytale or something?” 

Ian laughs, but Mickey can tell it’s forced. “God no. I- I’ll tell you about it when I visit.” 

“Sure,” Mickey agrees, trying to keep his voice light. Why is Ian hiding shit from him already? It’s been five fucking days. “Listen, Ian, there’s a buncha guys in line and they’re starting to get pissed. I’ll call you later.” 

“Oh, okay. Call me tomorrow. _Please_.”

“Sure.” 

“I love you.” 

Mickey hangs up. 

…

Images of Ian with other guys are flashing through Mickey’s mind like a waking nightmare. It’s the only explanation Mickey can come up with for Ian’s seedy behavior. Maybe he got back together with his ex, that Trevor guy. Ian mentioned him a couple of times, though Mickey had tried his hardest not to listen. Ian had also mentioned a firefighter once, which had set Mickey's jealousy meter off the fucking charts.

Mickey doesn’t know much about Ian’s exes. Ian had tried bringing them up, and even tried to get Mickey to talk about any relationships Mickey had been in, but Mickey had been as monosyllabic and uncooperative as possible. Mickey had no interest in hearing about Ian’s hot boyfriends with hero complexes, out trying to save the fucking world. And equally, Mickey had no interest in telling Ian about the guys he’d been forced to fuck to survive in prison, or the endless slog of men he’d been with in Mexico, in a desperate attempt to erase Ian from his fucking mind. 

The thing is, Mickey tried to move on from Ian, and had been minorly successful. Not during his first stint in the joint, no. He’d been a delusional fuck, thinking that if he could just see Ian again, he could get him back. But after Mickey had stopped crying like a little bitch when he got to Mexico and found a job with the cartel, Mickey had tried his damned hardest to move on. He went to gay bars, and had a lot of one-night stands, but he also tried dating. He’d dated a few men actually. He lasted a few months with this one dude, Julio. He was lanky, and baby faced, like Ian had once been, and fucked Mickey like a champ, but Mickey had dropped him to join Ian in prison. 

Mickey doesn’t want to delude himself about Ian anymore. He wants to know exactly what the fuck Ian is doing that he feels the need to hide from Mickey. Could Ian really move on so quickly? No, that’s a stupid question. Of course, he can. He has before. 

Nevertheless, Mickey calls Ian the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that. Ian picks up every time, and he sounds happy to hear from Mickey, and Mickey dutifully doesn’t ask him any personal questions. He knows Ian will just lie, so why even bother asking? Maybe if Ian ever comes to visit, he can get the truth out of him, but for now all Mickey can do is wait and hope. The calls are kind of awkward. Conversation has never been stilted between them, but Mickey isn’t a natural conversationalist, and he’s worse over the phone. He also can’t ask Ian basic questions about his life apparently, which makes it that much fucking harder. Ian offers up stories to Mickey about what’s going on with the Gallagher clan, but mostly he seems to just want to ask Mickey about how he’s doing. Mickey lies and says he’s fine. He doesn’t tell Ian about the guy who tried to go after him in the showers, or the fight he got into the other day, because he needed to punch somebody. 

Mickey’s fucking fine.

…

Three weeks without seeing Ian, and Mickey is ready to do something drastic. Ian can’t get Tami’s car, and he can’t afford to take the bus all the way over, and Mickey can’t shut up the voice in his head telling him that Ian has moved on. Ian has missed three phone calls from Mickey, not counting the first one he missed. It’s not that much really- Ian’s picked up far more times than he’s missed – but it ramps Mickey paranoia up to a motherfucking eleven. 

“I’m good,” Ian keeps saying whenever Mickey asks him basically _anything_. 

Mickey keeps having these dreams of Ian. Mostly at the Fairytale, of guys all over him. Ian touching and grinding against them, and smirking at Mickey every once in a while as if to rub it in his face. But sometimes Ian is with this bland faceless guy. Ian isn’t making out with him or anything, but they’re comfortably together, holding onto one another in a way that says they’re more than friends. 

“You didn’t think I’d wait for you forever, did you?” Ian asks. Not meanly, never meanly. Mickey doesn’t say anything in those dreams, just watches, quietly devastated. 

Four weeks without Ian, and Mickey gets into three separate fights. One guy punches him in the ribs so hard he thinks they might be cracked. He should probably go get it checked out, but he sort of likes the constant pain whenever he breaths. It’s distracting. 

Ian can tell somethings wrong though, even over the phone. 

“Why are you talking like that.” 

“Like what?” Mickey asks, trying to put more bass in his voice, but it hurts not to speak in a breathless tinny way so his ribs don’t spike in pain. 

“Like that. Like somebody’s got you by the balls.” 

“Don’t you?” Mickey means it as a joke, but Ian doesn’t laugh, and there’s a long silence over the phone. “I don’t know man. Must just be the phone quality.” 

“Sure Mick,” Ian agrees blandly. 

Five weeks without Ian and Mickey is being released. It’s surreal. He doesn’t quite believe it’s happening. He jumps out of a moving bus, and then he’s in a nice car with a man far too chipper to be a hardened parole officer, and then he’s climbing up the Gallagher house to Ian’s room. Fate or God, or whatever the fuck must be on Mickey’s side this time because Ian is in his room, shirtless and alone, and Mickey says some shit to Ian, and Ian says some shit to him, but it doesn’t register. Finally, Ian says, “come here,” and Mickey’s back where he belongs. 

**Author's Note:**

> Just to be clear in this fic Mickey is an incredibly unreliable narrator, and the majority of what he thinks should not be taken at face value. I hope I made that clear to readers, and also that Mickey is making a lot of mistakes along the way. Ian is in no way a villain, and neither is Mickey, but both fuck up and hurt the other by mistake, mainly by not talking like the idiots they are.
> 
> Please consider leaving a kudos or comment. This is my first fanfic, and I’m really nervous about posting this online. I’m not a creative writer by any stretch of the imagination, but I hope it doesn’t show too much. This was not beta read because I have no idea how to go about finding a beta, so any mistakes are my own. I’ve tried to proofread it as best I can, but unfortunately, I’m sure some mistakes were bound to be missed.


End file.
